Losing Steam
by Agent Evey
Summary: Helen confronts John about Cambodia.


_There is a chink in her armor._

_He knows it's there, has always known how to get to her in the deepest of ways._

_The inevitable tug pulls at the fabric of her life. She doesn't know how he does it-how he tears himself into a myriad of threads and weaves each one delicately into the folds of her existence._

_Strands of half-spent emotions fall around her in his wake._

_God she hates him for it; he is a tangled mass of energy and she is caught up in his influence._

_Grey memories, faded potential, but that vulnerability is her power; her fragile, elegant strength._

_It's the only edge she has against him, but there is a chink in his armor. She knows it's there because she put it there. This is a two-way street, after all._

_He's exhausted and frail and she wants him to be;_

_She needs to be that weakness._

Helen had almost given in to him, in a moment of vulnerability.

John was in the kitchen. She had discovered him there only a handful of moments before, eating in such a sterile fashion as to make her question his level of enjoyment in the act. The porridge he had prepared looked bland and tasteless-watery, even-and held a gray, creamy glow; it barely held any warmth now and offered no joy in it's scent. He seemed only to tolerate it, as though it were a necessary item of consumption that held no intrinsic value. His tea, by contrast, remained hot and his eyes were glazed in spider's silk as he nestled his concentration on the steam's ebbing flow. She noted with concern that he had not taken any cream-a small habit of his that she had never thought to forget. It meant that there were worrying things on his mind, but he would not voice his concerns.

She did not bother to announce herself, nor did he make any attempt to acknowledge her. They both needed the silence, a lack that spoke for them in a way that words could not. Memories could be reclaimed in that stillness, rescripted and set to play through a nuanced emotional lens. Most of his own memories were gilded in remorse-they stretched grossly across the vast web of his lifespan like a wet, sticky film; the iridescence of fly-wings rare in the dampened darkness. He thrived at the center of it all, yellow-eyed and as proud as Caesar as he glanced wickedly across the carnage; a king that reigned over pillars of dust.

Helen's breathing shuddered through the translucence of his veins, a tender curiosity steering his thoughts toward more recent events. Both of them knew that she had revealed more to him in Cambodia than she would have liked. He remembered waking to find her in his arms, and knew that she had discovered some hollow version of the lover he used to be within him while he lay still and inert. Barred from her life, such rawness was alien to him now. He had no access to the thoughts that haunted her in the daylight and the dark; she sought a comfort that he could no longer give. I felt wrong, somehow, to have witnessed that fragility; as if he had seen her nude.

It pained him. He was a nightmare within the waking world, a creature that she had recoiled from in the morning the instant his aching, bloodshot eyes opened to suckle at the last tresses of darkness. So far, he had been able to manage the elemental, the monster fed off of high energy levels generated from the experience of suffering, and there was plenty of it to spare when Helen was around. It seemed content, for now, to feed off of him alone but he doubted that his luck would last.

His hollow gaze ascended to study her figure, standing over him in the waxy light. For all that he was, she had come to seek his counsel anyway. Her determination was unquestionable.

"I see you've found your feet" she said with half of a smile.

"Indeed," he spoke as he swallowed off his lack of hunger.

"No cream?" a nod toward the saucer.

He shook his head absently, steeling himself for the conversation to come.

"John, about yesterday," she began, and he knew he had guessed correctly, "I wanted to apologize for what happened..."

"Don't" he interrupted her, his tone carrying the weight of his age, "don't ever apologize for needing me," vacant eyes searched hers for a little, voice dropping to a weakened husk, "please," he begged, "I'm here. Always."

Helen bit her lip. John was simply giving voice to what had always been an understanding between them. He would never stop being there, not as long as he still drew breath. They were both tired of the game, the monotony, and the repetition, but they had been going at it it far too long to stop; she knew that now better than ever.

"I just wish the circumstances had been different." John added, his gaze averting from her own.

"Different?" The question came in a beat. She could guess where this was leading, but she wanted to hear him say it.

The depth of his following sigh betrayed the wisdom of his years, ever boyish in his pursuit of her affections. "I wish that you had come to me for me, Helen, not simply for information." His hollowed gaze found her again and his head shook in dismissal, before she could voice a retort, "It's fool's hope, Helen, I know it is and I know you won't stand for it." A dense swallow filled the void, "James warned me of my blindness long ago, but I remain unable to see past my own pain. I will not accept the truth" His blue eyes flared, disappointment in himself, in her, in everything, evident on his features. "I cannot."

She studied him, her movements gradually growing still, as if hesitant to shatter his current ignorance. The cup of tea, barely touched, still steamed in cheerful irony and she reached out to clasp its handle, hand shaking weakly with the act. It caught his attention immediately.

His expression shifted as she partook of his drink, his initial relief at her willingness to be familiar with him slowly evolving into a mixture of confusion, incredulity, then fear.

"I'm dying John" she answered his pale eyes and watched as his breathing stopped.

She began without waiting for a response, "When Worth came back, he demonstrated strange capabilities…."

"Yes?" he spoke in a whisper-as if a higher decibel might harm her-encouraging her explanation.

"You've been informed of our experimentation with the map and of our recent search for Hollow Earth. He was using their technology; found a way to travel through the rift in between space and time. It's an amazing discovery, and I suspect that it is not unrelated to your own abilities but the transport came at a cost."

John's face contorted, folding in upon itself like an angry dog's as he became visibly disturbed.

"Massive doses of radiation." she continued, shaking her head at what had happened,"He trapped me in a time dilation field; kept popping in and out of it at will, travelling through the rift. I took one of the jumps with him as a last resort, he knew I would eventually try. I managed to escape the field but not Adam's intentions."

His jaw tightened.

"I've acquired a rare and aggressive form of cancer as a result. If things progress the way they've been, I'll be dead within a week. "

John's eyes closed to calm the rising tension in his core. He wanted blood and the creature was getting excited.

"And Adam?" he asked tritely.

"He's acquired it as well. There are indications that he may know of a cure and we think that it is tied to Hollow Earth, but beyond that he's not giving us any information. He wants us to let him help decipher the map so that he can find a way back into the city;" she rolled her eyes, " claims that it's the only way to solve everything. This is just like Oxford, in a way. We have to find a way to bypass his advantage and discover the cure ourselves."

A certain softness hit his eyes at the mention of their younger days, though it was quickly replaced by his growing sense of frustration. "Play his game," he offered, "make him think he has the upper hand."

"Absolutely not," she shook her head," I saw it in the time field; he's ten steps ahead of all of us. I've never even seen the type of technology he brought with him. There's no telling what might happen if we let him have the advantage."

"And there's no telling what will happen if we don't," he retorted.

"It's too much of a risk." Her words were cut short as she began to sputter and cough, her frustration manifesting externally. The episode lasted only moments but to John it stretched on for hours; by the end of it she had doubled over towards the floor, her hand hovering weakly to cover her mouth.

This time he rose, animation defining his form. He found her shoulder and used a distant strength to gently guide her upright again.

"Good God, Helen," his voice went hoarse as he offered her a napkin. She continued to shield her face, evidence that she meant to conceal whatever was there. When she finally did bring the cloth to her lips, blood seeped hungrily into the fibers.

His breathing became more rapid, a testament to the one thing he feared the most.

"I'm fine," she muttered as she waved him off.

"No, you're not," his voice thickened the air, "no, you're definitely not."

His mouth gaped open as if to say something else, then closed as his words fell short. There was nothing to say, he thought, then let go of her, eyes burning with conviction as he stretched to full height. He turned to face the doorway.

"Where are you going?" Helen inquired weakly, her hand trembling as she brushed tresses of hair away from her eyes.

"You already know."

"John, don't," she grasped his arm, stopping his movements entirely. "We don't need his help. He's not cooperating anyway and its only a matter of time before we discover the entrance to Hollow Earth ourselves. I know that time is not a luxury I can claim any more, but willful surrender is not an option. Try to subvert my authority and I _will_ have you restrained."

He shook her hand away from him, reeling around to face her more directly.

"Exactly why did you bring me here, hmm?" The intonation resonated through the vacant room, his anger over Adam spilling into his current dealings with her, "Clearly there was a reason, sensible or not. You could have gotten your information and left me to wallow in my own self-prescribed misery but you didn't, so what is it that you want from me? "

"You weren't exactly in the best condition to talk, John. I didn't have time to sit around and wait for you to sober up."

"Ah, " his head rolled sardonically, "I see, so it was all about the intel, then; just as you said." He knew that she needed his abilities and their convenience in this desperate situation, but some sick part of him wanted to hear her say it, wanted her to admit that weakness. "Nothing else you'd like to share?"

Helen glared at him. "This is bigger than you and me. "

"Yes," he seethed, "I know. It always is."

She grit her teeth, turning away from him to calm her nerves. "You're being selfish."

"And you aren't?" he shifted uncomfortably. "Look, I'm happy to give you answers, Helen, and I am willing to put my abilities at your disposal for the time being but you want me to just...sit on my hands and watch you suffer under his threat?" Spindly hands gestured helplessly, "My dear, I am not made of stone; maybe you feel nothing for me but I feel everything for you," he said flatly. "You cannot ask me to do that."

Pain flashed behind the scrim of her eyes. "Believe me that is evident. If you can't set aside our past in order to help navigate this situation..."

"Our past _is_ the situation." His interruption came as a bellow.

A silent moment passed between them as a silent moment passes between mountains. Then, a gale, tired and ancient, swept past their combined strength. Lowly, she offered her solution, "I suggest you leave."

The arch of his neck shifted as he shook his head. "That won't happen either."

"Then stay out of my way," she said, cold as ice-water.

His emotions became volcanic. "Dammit Helen!" John shouted, gravel rolling in his voice as his fist slammed against the table. The tableware slid and clattered, settling on the edge as it narrowly missed the chance to tip over.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Came a voice from the entrance, and Will stepped into the room, arms drawn up, "Look, I don't know what _this,_" he gestured between the two of them, "is but you're needed in your office, Magnus. We've got to talk."

"Fine," Helen snarled through gritted teeth, kicking her chair aside as she rose. Will narrowed his eyes at John before thinking better of it, then turned quickly to scurry out of the room. He nearly had to jog to keep up with the speed of Helen's angered exit.

John sank back into the hard chair. He sat coldly for a little while, staring into the vacant doorway. Distantly, he could hear the voices of Nikola, Henry, and William as they joined him in the argument against her reasoning.

His eyes fell to the saucer and he leaned in to slide it back from the brink of the table. Blood glistened from the intricate patterns on the cup's rim. With a growl, he rose again and began to gather the tableware with the intent to clean it.

It was precisely then that a great ape of a man came shuffling in; he stood at John's height and, with a grunt of irritation, gruffly swiped a porridge-laden bowl from the Ripper's hand.

"My job," Biggie huffed at him, taking the dish and heading toward the sink.

John did not argue. Instead, he braced a long hand against the table, leaning over its surface in quiet contemplation as he listened to the clinking and clattering of the ape's household sounds.

After a while, he cleared his throat. "She's being completely unreasonable," he said as his shoulders sank.

"She needs your help," the bigfoot stated brusquely, barely turning from the sink to look at John," she's afraid. Just too stubborn to admit it."

He was afraid too, but in a different way. "I'm just a convenience, a means to an end. My powers are the only thing that can get her through this in enough time. She'd call on someone else if they had my abilities."

"Maybe," Biggie gave a grunt as he turned the sink off and began to dry the dishes by hand. "Or maybe she wouldn't trust someone else to see her like this, hmm?"

John hummed in consideration and wiped his palms smoothly against the backing of the chair. There was silence, and then: "Does she ever speak of me?" he asked in a strange voice, like a child's.

"No," he grumbled firmly, "but you know what that means."

Yes, he knew. Of course he knew. Helen never spoke about the things that bothered her the most. John released a spider's sigh, small and inaudible, and his ocean-eyes moved to bore into Biggie's own.

_Go,_ the ape said without words, a brown fire blazing in his pupils. John nodded in silent agreement, then turned resolutely in the direction of Helen's office.


End file.
